


And In the Darkness Bind Them

by NyteFlyer



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Christmas, Gay Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:23:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyteFlyer/pseuds/NyteFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best laid schemes o' mice an' men....</p>
            </blockquote>





	And In the Darkness Bind Them

_The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men Gang aft agley, An lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!_  
~~ "To a Mouse" by Robert Burns  
  
December 1, 2009:

I’m down on one knee in the far corner of the attic, searching through a tiny alcove Timmy doesn‘t even know exists. Hidden back here behind trunks and boxes and discarded furniture, I stretch my hand through dust and darkness, mouse pellets and cobwebs and time, until my fingers close on that box, that tiny, gift-wrapped box, and pull it into the light.

Looking at the box has become a yearly ritual, like putting up the tree or hanging a wreath on the front door, letting Timmy drag my bah-humbugging ass through an overcrowded hellhole of a mall as we fight tooth and nail for a tasteful scarf for his mom, a cushy sweater for his sister, an appropriately stodgy-smelling cologne for his old man. It’s like midnight mass and eggnog, like making slow, lazy love in front of the fire as Judy Garland sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on vinyl -- vinyl, for chrissake -- because Timmy thinks the CD player provides too sterile a backdrop for sex in the middle of the living room floor on Christmas Eve night. You wouldn’t know it, but for me, this little box represents the ghost of all our Christmases past, a thanks for our Christmas in the here and now, a prayer for our Christmases future.

I’m not sure whether it’s a time capsule or a time bomb, a reaffirmation of what we have or a reminder of what we don’t. Those first couple of years, touching it, feeling the weight of it in my hand, letting my fingertips whisper across that crinkling red paper made me busting-out-of-my-skin excited as I thought about Timmy, imagining what the expression on his face would be like when I was finally able to give it to him. In the years since, it’s given me comfort when times were tough, pissed me off a time or two and occasionally depressed the ever-loving hell out of me. This year, more than ever before, it fills me with hope.

Fragments of aging ribbon scatter across my palm. One corner of the wrapping paper looks like it’s been gnawed through. The mice have been at it, or maybe even a rat. I grin, thinking of what Timmy’s reaction might be to _that_. By mutual agreement, it’s my job to bait, set, and empty the traps I’ve scattered across the attic floor, and it’s his job to pretend they don’t exist. Seems only fair, since it lets both of us sleep through the night.

I’ll have to rewrap the package before I give it to him, I guess. Or maybe not. I kinda like the signs of wear and tear on it, the proof of its age, a testimonial to its history. To our history, to who we once were and who we are now, what we, as a perfectly matched set, will always be, whether I ever get a chance to give him the damned thing or not. So maybe I’ll just hand it over as is, make him believe that the buck-toothed little bastards who chewed on it are long dead, victims of my traps and his housekeeping skills. Make him understand that the gift inside is every fucking bit as pristine as what I feel for him, what I know he feels for me, who we are as a couple.

I settle on the floor, cross-legged like a kid at story time, the package nestled in my palm. Slowly, I pass it from hand to hand, weighing it, delaying the inevitable. Finally, I can’t wait any longer. I work my fingernail under a yellowing strip of Scotch tape and pry it loose, watching the folds of paper on that side drift open. I ease the contents out, being extra careful not to damage the mouse-mauled paper any more than I have to. A cardboard box slides into my hand, black and glossy, with a jeweler’s name embossed on the top. Inside, another box, black as well and covered in velvet. Slowly and with as much reverence as a jaded asshole like me is capable of showing anyone or anything, I open the hinged lid.

It’s a ring, of course. A man’s ring, gold with diamonds in a clean and tasteful design, sized to fit Timmy’s right hand. At least I hope it still fits. He’s gained maybe ten pounds in our years together, but it’s healthy weight, and it looks good on him. His wedding ring still fits just fine, but who knows? Time changes things. Ring sizes go up or down, laws are passed and later repealed, hopes are raised and sometimes, if we’re lucky, fulfilled. Timmy, though? My Timmy never changes. Not really. God only knows what it would do to me if he ever did.

Timmy and me, we’re married, you see. Married in every way that counts, except for one. I’m not even sure why that one small detail matters, really. It’s not like we haven’t covered our asses, drawn up wills and powers of attorneys, put both our names on the mortgage and deposited all our money in a joint bank account. We’re tied together as tightly as any two people can get…almost. But it’s that “almost” that bothers us, Timmy more than me, because tradition matters to him, the law matters to him, feeling validated as a human being and recognized as part of a committed and loving couple matters to him. And as much as I hate to admit it, it matters to me, too.

On our wedding day, we slipped a pair of plain gold bands on each other’s right hands, agreeing that on the day we could back up our wedding vows with a state-issued marriage license, we’d do the ceremony thing all over again and switch off, placing those bands on our left hands instead. Still, the more I thought about it, the more I hated the idea of his right hand going bare after having my ring on it for all that time. So I bought this ring and carefully hid it away, wrapped in red Christmas paper and topped with a bow, and waited -- sometimes patiently and sometimes not -- for the time to come when I could get down on one knee under the mistletoe and ask him to watch me pass out in the middle of saying our wedding vows just one more time.

I hear the front door open down below, his voice calling my name. Brushing my finger across the recessed diamonds one more time, I slip the ring back into its box and its box back into its wrapping paper, then quickly press that yellow strip of tape home with the ball of my thumb. I start to put the package back into its hiding place, but on second thought, slide it into my pocket instead.

“I’m up here, honey!” I call, brushing all the dust and mouse shit from my jeans and hustling down the retractable ladder. It’s late and he’s gonna be tired, and I don’t want him to waste time and energy worrying that I might be off in a dark alley somewhere, getting my head bashed in. He’s spent the last few weeks burning the midnight oil with the senator, traveling the state and drumming up support for the bill she and her colleagues will be voting on tomorrow. I know he’s just about as exhausted as a human being can get, but he’s revved and optimistic, believing -- the way he always does -- that people are basically fair and intelligent and kind, and that if he works hard enough and has enough faith, justice will be served in the end. I’m not sure I buy into that. I’m not sure I’ll ever buy into that. But this time around, I hope like hell he’s right.

The ladder slides back into place and the attic door shuts behind it. I meet him midpoint on the stairs, him on the fifth step and me on the sixth, so for once I get to be the taller one. He steps into my embrace with a sigh, wrapping his arms around my waist and slumping into me, letting me support his weight for a moment as his head rests on my chest. “I’m glad you’re home,“ we say in unison. I snort, and he chuckles in motion more than in sound, his chest vibrating with silent laughter as it presses against my ribcage. I kiss his forehead, smell the stale cigarette smoke I know he hates in his hair, sway with him gently.

Mice in the attic or not, he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. But I can run a warm bath for him and wash his hair, make sure he has something to eat and drink and that he rests, hold him all night and just listen and encourage as he chatters and rants and analyzes and hopes. Most of all, as he hopes.

As I lead him into the bedroom and help him start to undress, I decide that first thing in the morning I’m gonna run to the store and buy him wine and flowers and the biggest bunch of mistletoe I can find. To hell with waiting until closer to Christmas. I’m gonna hang that shit from every light fixture and from every door frame, cover the whole fucking house in it, so that every room, every square inch of floor space will be the perfect spot to drop to my knees and give him the gift I’ve been waiting all these Christmases to give him when the moment is right, when justice is finally served, when the state of New York finally agrees that the whole “all men are created equal” spiel wasn’t just a load of bullshit Jefferson drummed up to convince his buddies to sign on the dotted line.

This could be the year, I tell myself as I catch Timmy’s face between my hands and steal a soft kiss. This could be the Christmas that changes nothing on one level, but changes everything on another. The Christmas neither of us will ever forget, that thousands of people just like us will never, ever forget. I’ve got to be ready.

Just in case.  
  
 _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them  
~~ J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Author's Note:**

> On December 2, 2009 in Albany, the New York state senate rejected a bill that would have granted same-sex partners the right to legally wed. In spite of earlier predictions that the vote would be close, the bill was voted down 38-24, with eight Democrats backing the unanimous Republican caucus. In a statement issued that afternoon, Governor David Paterson, who has pledged to keep the fight to legalize same-sex marriage in NY alive, said, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
> 
> At least in these dark times, Donald still has his light….


End file.
